“Local Writer, Revisited”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Wordsmithing. A noble endeavor.

A few years ago, as part of my regular newspaper series, I tried including material from other writers in the area. My intent was to help them gain confidence and exposure as they learned the craft. Interacting with these friends helped me to understand the plight of creative souls more completely. While I had personally grown up in a family blessed with many engaged in this habit, it became clear that not everyone had that advantage. So the thought of giving encouragement seemed useful.

One of these kindred spirits, Cheryl Kelly, still contributes regularly to my online newspaper/blog, ‘The Geauga Independent.’ Her perspective is that of a career mom who has endured the challenges of divorce and office politics to thrive. I cherish the privilege of watching her development, in print.

More recently, I noted that one of my Facebook contacts, Robin Donnelly, was having her first volume published. An experience worthy of celebration. A bit of searching revealed that her book was called ‘Steel Town Girl’ and had been listed on Amazon. Instead of penning a typical manuscript review, I was curious about the writer herself and the experience of bringing this project to fruition.

Robin was eager to speak about her life and the beginning of her own journey toward being an author:

“I began writing in a diary, as a lot of young girls do, as a way to be seen and heard when upset. Eventually, though, my mother would find and read my diary, so I stopped writing and stuffed down my feelings instead. When I became a young, single mother, I started writing as a way to cope with the painful memories of my past, and filed my memories away in a 3-ring binder as a way of ‘letting go’ to show up for my role as a mom. I carted that notebook around with me everywhere we ever moved, and later transferred them into a computer for safer keeping. I thought by writing them out, I was somehow dealing with them, but, it turns out that although writing them out is good, writing them out and processing them, are two very different things.”

I wondered how she made the quantum leap from jotting down personal notes, to the discipline of creating a formal document for publication. Her response detailed a unique path toward professional writing:

“I didn’t grow up with encouragers within my family to write, but I did have an aunt that said I could do anything I wanted to do as long as I applied myself. She was a voracious reader and studied things that interested her or that kept her mind young. She left an indelible impression on me and I somehow ended up being more like her than anyone else in my family. Also, I had been in and out of counseling since my teens looking for answers to why I was feeling the way I was, and they all seemed to emphasize writing as being a very valuable and healthy way of dealing with painful memories so I just kept writing. And, the first memoir that really inspired me to continue writing was ‘The Glass Castle’ by Jeanette Walls. I loved how she told her stories. She wasn’t the victim. Her parents weren’t the enemy, and she didn’t tell her stories to whine or hurt anybody. It was just a factual account of their lives she thought deserved to be told. When I became a nurse and documented my care of my patients, I occasionally got notes in my mailbox from other nurses, saying how much they looked forward to following my shift because they enjoyed reading my nurse's notes so much. So, I guess it’s the example set by my aunt to keep striving and learning, coworkers saying they enjoyed reading my writing reading good memoir(s), and lots of counselors that encouraged me to just keep writing about what hurt.”

I could tell that she had developed an essential characteristic for a professional scribe – the literal ‘need’ to tell their story. This yearning to be heard and understood is potent stuff. A powerful fuel that can propel those who tap out creative text through many cares and woes of daily life. But in Robin’s case, the trek toward distilling her ideas into a workable format required much soul-searching and sacrifice:

“My family is small and consists of a husband and two grown boys but they couldn’t be happier for me. The only people aware of just how much work it was to complete Steel Town Girl, and what a toll confronting the trauma took on my health, is my husband an counselor. It was a huge undertaking that at times I wasn’t sure I could continue working through. In the midst of processing it all, I was diagnosed with C/P.T.S.D. and needed to take weeks, sometimes months off. Showing up for yourself for the first time in decades, to sit with what hurts you, is one of the hardest things I have done in my life.”

I wondered about the actual process of producing her book. She spoke honestly about this maiden voyage into the realm of authorship:

“It was never what I thought it was going to be. What I thought would be the most difficult wasn’t, and what I thought would be the easiest wasn’t. And, truth be told, hitting the self-publish button was completely underwhelming. I’m not sure if I thought Create Space would send balloons and streamers through my computer screen or what, but I was like ‘That’s it?’ In the whole process from first edit to publish, there were so many final, final, FINAL things that go into it all, that I learned to stop using the word ‘final.’”

Robin’s candid assessment made me smile. In my own world of newspaper prose, I have often remarked that my work is ‘as good as my last column or article.’ Like the movie ‘Groundhog Day’ the experience starts over and over and over again with a rapidity that eschews lingering on doubt and over analysis. The short span of time before deadline forces a sort of routine akin to a professional athlete. Unfortunately, this sometimes can mean that a story misses the mark, like a wild pitch in baseball. But, redemption is always ready, with the next throw.

Pondering the title of her book, I was moved to ask about the true identity of her subject. Robin answered by peering into her own ‘back pages’ for answers:

“This is an interesting question because we are just now finding out who we are. As a child, the Steel Town Girl is a vulnerable, confused, silly girl at heart, who just wants to be a kid, and longs to be loved and seen by her family. But, because of dysfunctional family dynamics and abuse, she doesn’t get to have a childhood. She’s a wounded child by night, and an extra, super, do-gooder by day. Many Steel Town Girls are just now, in midlife, waking up to what they really are without all the conditioning of ‘never good enough,’ ‘who do you think you are?’ and confronting the fear caused by being told ‘You’d shut your mouth if you knew what was good for you.’ We have empty nests now, and are some years into retirement, wondering where our loves and lives have gone? And for as much compassion, time, and energy we’ve given to raise up others, we are left alone to pick up the pieces of our fragmented selves. We’ve given up our lives and our identities to our families who somehow have taken us for granted and look at us as if we are somewhat unhinged. So, we turn to stare at a face we no longer recognize and realize in the end, after all this, we are alone. We pull the capes we wear from under us, and sit down at our computers to sew together the pieces of our secrets for far too long. We’ve stayed strong for so long and the magnitude of staying silent for one more second is crushing us. We learn to stand up for ourselves once and for all. And we weep for the little girls we realize we left, lost, without a voice for their pain. So we do the work even when we don’t want to, and when we’re done, we show up with our stories in hand and say ‘Of course I look unhinged. This is what my life has been like, I hope you understand why I didn’t tell you this before.’ We are the women trying to find the strength to love ourselves through the difficult chapters of our lives all while taking the risk of being judged and ridiculed for feeling anything about it at all.”

Robin painted a vivid word-picture with her description. I reckoned the book was one likely to help unlock the creative impulses of readers with their own stories to share. But from my personal experiences as an author, I knew that the actual marketing of a printed volume could be daunting. A task much less thrilling than that of creating the tale.

I asked about her plans for promoting the work. She was on-point in answering with obvious skills in such things having already been developed:

“Ah, marketing. I needed to be laser focused on writing and finishing my book, so, here I am, just now immersing myself in all that I need to know about marketing a book. I used to own a brick and mortar business at one time that was successful, and I’m seeing now that marketing this book is very similar to the marketing I did with that. So, I will again do what I did with my business; deliver a good product is number one, update and use my blogs, FB posts/ads, word-of-mouth, YT videos, give-aways, mailing lists, a blog tour like this one and promote other self published authors, and various other things. Right now, I just want to breathe. Marketing you will never see me doing: a book reading.”

I was impressed by her action plan. Much like the Steel Town Girl she had described, who served as a mother even while battling her own silent agony, she had a map in place to reach her goals. One that charted the steps needing to be taken.

In summation, I wondered about advice that she might impart to others seeking to immerse themselves in the craft. Her thoughts were refreshing, well-founded and holistic in nature:

“Everyone is different, but my focus was and is: eating right, walking/or some kind of exercise, then writing, in that order. I accomplish any big thing in steps. So, I make lists of the immediate next steps that need to be completed, and try not to concern myself with what is too far down the road. I get done what needs done today, and check it off. And I keep doing that again and again. I use a planner and stay organized. I tried hard to ignore anything frivolous that kept me from writing. I stopped using FB for anything, but keeping myself accountable. When you see in your memories that FB is telling you a year ago that you wrote 2,342 words ‘on this day,’ but you are still not done with your book, it re-ignites a fire under you to keep your word(s) to yourself. I stopped wasting precious time getting involved in lengthy discussions in comment streams or groups on social media. And I stopped attending webinars on how-to write memoir(s) after my husband pointed out I might be using them to procrastinate. He was right. I also stopped reading other people’s memoirs while trying to find my own voice. I got control of my mind and I just wrote. If I went down a rabbit hole, so be it. I chased the feeling of being done and being published all the way till I caught it by the tail. I don’t write to impress others. I write to express what’s in my heart.”

Robin’s remarks reminded me of an admonition from my own father, an active writer and author throughout his life. After watching me fail to find inspiration as a wordsmith, he insisted that I write from my own experiences. “You know those better than anything else,” he advised. His words were like gold in my pocket. Suddenly, I struggled no more.

With our interview complete, I felt happy to have made contact with this local writer in a journalistic setting. I felt sure that more correspondence about the project was likely to follow, in the future. And, that the ‘Steel Town Girl’ would soon be better-known by readers, everywhere.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Find Robin's book at: https://www.amazon.com/Steel-Town-Girl-Robin-Donnelly/dp/1726119912 

Read Robin's blog at: https://robin-donnelly.com

“Macaroni & Cheese”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Dinner in a box. The focus of my subconscious mind.

In January of 1979, I was in a Cornell University apprenticeship program called ‘The Learning Web.’ This allowed me to experience local broadcasting at a real-time pace. I worked at Channel 13, a public access station, on West State Street in Ithaca, New York. Many skills were learned there while interacting with the crowd of journalists, technicians, students, teachers, artists, performers, local malcontents and poets. I joined this community by an accident of fate, but soon felt at home in the group. Though we were dissimilar in experiences, our unity came from a shared desire to be heard.

Each of us had something to say.

When I remember that era from my current vantage point of middle-aged angst, a more mature focus has taken hold. To be sure, echoes of Punk Rock and counterculture art remain prevalent. Also powerful are the life lessons cataloged while working with people who were not like each other. And the proficiency I mastered at handling video equipment in that era. But now, I savor an aroma of something else. A flavor delivered from a small cardboard box, with pasta and a sauce packet.

Macaroni & Cheese.

I was 17 at the beginning of that year. Still living at home on North Cayuga Street. My days at the Cerrache Cablevision studio were often long and exhausting. Typically, over a dozen hours or more. We sometimes stopped at the local State Diner for grub, after work. Or at Pete’s Cayuga Tavern, for refreshment. Yet my favorite nights were more lonely in character. On foot, I would head home through the clatter and chaos of downtown to my home on the city’s edge. There, I would nearly always find everyone else asleep. This subdued mood-after-dark fit my needs.

If I was lucky, there were boxes of mac dinner in the cupboard. On rare occasions, the blue one offered by Kraft, considered primo to my taste buds. More likely though, was the knock-off labeled Sunny Square, a staple item of household cuisine because they were regularly 5/$1.00 at our local P & C Supermarket. With one of our junk TV sets tuned to Johnny Carson, Three Stooges reruns or late movies from New York City, I would begin to cook for myself. These were early adventures as an ‘Outlaw Chef.’ Sometimes, rice and bouillon cubes had to suffice. Or fried potatoes. But the taste of elbows and cheese was my favorite. An easy foundation for kitchen improvisations. Quick and glorious.

Suited to my teenage palate.

We had plastic bowls among our inexpensive tableware that were thin and flimsy, but big enough to hold an entire dinner with accouterments. So I would make the boxed dinner, then add from whatever waited in the refrigerator. Sometimes this meant a meal with hamburger or chopped pork or bacon or bits of deli meat like salami or bologna. On other occasions the nightly feast took a vegetarian turn, with green peppers, fresh onions, cucumbers, carrots or radishes on top. When resources were slim, I relied on dried salad toppings or even Italian dressing. At the very least, spices such as garlic powder, red pepper, paprika or cumin added zest.

I just needed a potholder because the plastic bowl would become so hot.

The result would be a heap of starchy food, balanced in my lap. Enough to help me get through episodes of ‘The Life of Riley’ with Jackie Gleason or a movies such as ‘They Call Me Trinity’ with Bud Spencer and Terrence Hill or ‘Grave of the Vampire’ with William Smith and Michael Pataki. Frequently, I found note paper or old envelopes nearby and drew pictures while enjoying these moments of solitude. Or composed song lyrics for future projects.

I had unwittingly embraced a family tradition, even while feeding my face. There were always ideas to record. Work continued both day and night. My brain was never offline.

Eventually, these carb-rich banquets would break the intensity of my routine. I often fell asleep in the chair, only to wake with a first tease of morning at the window. By then, I had wandered too close to the reality of waking hours. My hope was always to avoid other family members as they were ready to greet the day. To complete my ritual of solitude. Lingering too long meant watching my father mix water and loose coffee grounds in his enameled pot, on the stove. Or hearing my brother snort and stir from his bed like a restless rhinoceros. I would climb the staircase with a full belly and my notes scribbled on paper. Winter months would end with an electric heater by my bed. Summer months concluded with a fan in the same spot. I had a corner room that felt cozy, but not gifted by good ventilation. Street lights made the window shades glow, long after dark. Still, these recollections seem precious, even from 40 years ago.

My belly was always full and my heart, always hopeful.

Later years would see me finding personal growth, a family of my own and career advancement. And predictably, battling with my weight. But nothing has equaled the prosperity I felt as a kid - armed with the TV Guide and a steaming bowl of macaroni & cheese.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Weekend Waiting”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

“So tired… tired of waiting… tired of waiting for you.”

The Kinks released this pop statement to the world in 1965, when I was a mere child of four with my Silvertone AM radio. But more recently, I reflected on their notable 45 rpm single during a Sunday spent with my friend Janis in Ashtabula County, by Lake Erie. We had decided to get food at Toro Carryout, on West Prospect Road. This hole-in-the-wall eatery offered us a break from typical fare available near her home. The aroma of gyros and fresh-baked baklava filled my truck as we drove back to watch episodes of the new ‘Mayans’ series on FX that she had saved with her DVR. But then, the mood changed. As we neared Route 45, a stalled train could be seen, blocking the way. She offered directions for a detour. I was grateful, being less than familiar with her neighborhood. It took a few extra minutes to veer around the creaky, cargo-hauler. Then, at last, we were able to enjoy our feast in her living room.

The series started slowly, somewhat less thrilling than ‘Sons of Anarchy.’ Yet I reckoned we ought to watch more than two episodes before passing judgment. Janis agreed to a quick walk after finishing our meal. We enjoyed the breeze and cool afternoon temperature. But then, both of us were relaxed to the point of nodding off. She asked if we could watch the remaining show at a later time. I needed to do a bit of grocery shopping on the way home, so her suggestion fit my unspoken timeline.

Driving west, toward Geneva, I intended to stop at my favorite supermarket. Then, a reflection on the list I had left at home reminded me that Wrangler, my Black Lab, needed food. He was particular about his sustenance, taking only dry Kibbles ‘n Bits in his bowl. Buying large bags of this processed foodstuff meant going to the Walmart megacenter in Madison, or paying a $2.00 - $5.00 premium elsewhere.

I could easily go home through Lake County. But – IT WAS SUNDAY!

I debated my options while at the wheel. Our household budget had become strained after I needed to retire early, in 2016. Recent trips to West Virginia regarding family matters only tightened the screws. I had to save money. Still, visiting the empire of Walton on a weekend? The act seemed sure to cause a headache. I pondered waiting to get dog food on another day, but that seemed more foolish by far. My canine friend needed to eat, as I had already done.

Reason won out over convenience. I made a u-turn and headed east once more.

Store 3608 is located northwest of Madison Village. An easy target on my way home to Thompson. Yet when I began to descend the hill from North Ridge Road, my peril became clear. I could barely see any empty spaces in the lot. Fall had blessed Ohio with a day nearly perfect in every aspect. One suited for a motorcycle cruise, yard work, grilling out with family and friends, visiting a local winery, or simply basking in the lingering glow of days growing shorter with the season. But a single thought had apparently gripped the entire weekend crowd.

SHOPPING AT WALLY WORLD!

I managed to squeeze my truck into a space about a dozen rows from the food entrance. As with each visit, I cursed fate for not having a disability placard to display. Hobbling with my cane, I found a cart that made walking the long distance less demanding. Then, the ordeal began.

Kibbles ‘n Bits were located on one side of the behemoth store. Bread, my pooch’s prime choice as a snack, was on the opposite side. An electric cart would have made the journey less taxing to endure, but I refused. People were literally everywhere. It seemed safer to meet them at a walking pace rather than with the speed of a motorized carriage.

I felt grateful to no longer be active as a retail manager.

Getting Wrangler’s necessities required a few minutes of walking while dodging others preoccupied with their own buying needs. I noted that more than one of my fellow patrons had the visual expression of a zombie on ‘The Walking Dead.’ I reckoned that they shared my remorse for having chosen to visit Walmart on its busiest day of the week.

Shopping was easy enough, with patience. Then, I scanned the front end. Out of a regular-register-roster that ran to a count around 20, I saw four stations open. The self-scan ‘bullpen’ was mobbed with what looked like the crowd at a Cleveland Indians game. Buried in a sweaty mass of impatient humanity. I crossed myself and again gave thanks for being retired. The scene evoked memories of long hours spent serving customers in similar venues. I felt glad to be free from my role in supervision.

Now, I hoped for liberty of a different sort. To get my purchases recorded and to escape from the restless throng of unhappy souls. I could see on each face, a familiar look of sadness and desperation. They had come to know what I knew, standing in line. That their visit to retailing hell would not end without a protracted period of agony and regret.

I wondered about the genuine worth of $2.00 saved on my bag of bow-wow bits. Every excruciating penny was about to be pulled from my skin, one after the other.

An express line, 20 items or less, offered the least suffering. While waiting, I looked over at others who had chosen to ring out items on the self-scan registers. Their wait was longer and more tortured than my own. Kids fretted and cried. Moms squawked on their phones. Dads huffed and sweated and fondled bags of potato chips and cases of beer.

I simply looked at the bag of Kibbles ‘n Bits.

After about ten minutes, I had gotten close enough to the express register that I recognized the cashier as a friend from my days at another store. But with the passage of another five minutes, her visage became more clear and less familiar. I had been wrong. She was someone I did not know, personally. But, her demeanor broke my mood of woe.

“Hello,” she smiled with a sterile expression of medicated calm. “Did you find everything that you needed today?”

“Yes, “I replied. “Thank you.”

“Were you able to enjoy the day outside?” she continued.

“Yes,” I answered. “Wonderful day. We won’t have many more like this...”

She appeared like a grandma who somehow traded her apron and baking of cookies for a uniform vest at Walleye Mart. I felt sad to think that she probably had grand kids somewhere who needed her loving words more than the artificial blips and static of a video game.

When my order had been completed, she nodded gratefully. “Thank you for shopping at Walmart!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

She looked straight ahead, with eyes that, perhaps, offered a tell-tale whisper of empty resignation. Again, I felt sorry for the kind woman and her grand kids. And, guilty for being in the store to make her plight more profitable for the folks in Bentonville. But, I was joyful for myself. I had jumped the fence between this world and the outside. Now, I was about to bolt for freedom, again!

On my way back to Geauga County, a train had traffic stopped just north of downtown Madison. A perfect point of closure to my day away from home. I sat at the steering wheel and sang to myself as Ray Davies had done, so many years ago.

“So tired… tired of waiting… tired of waiting for you...”

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Bully Boss”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Note: What follows here is completely true. As with ‘Dragnet’ only the names have been changed, to protect the innocent.

One-hundred-percent.

During my retail career of 33 years duration, I encountered many different types of managers. Some inspired me to accept greater responsibility at our stores, a decision I never regretted. Others seemed to suggest that a career in supervision was ill-advised. I used them all as human guideposts to steer my own habits while learning to be in charge.

One fellow from this crowd stood apart from the rest, during my journey.

We first met, abruptly, in 1992. My pair of supermarkets had been sold by our private owner to a local chain based in Cleveland. We were scheduled to close forever at 6:00 p.m. on Saturday. A handmade sign in the window thanked patrons for their past support of the business.

Tank Tatra entered the store before our doors were locked. He was a small man, balding, with a faint scar visible on his forehead. His eyes were piercing, like those of a restless badger on the hunt. He spoke with the rough dialect of city dwellers. I would later discover that he had worked his entire career with Fazio’s, a local group of supermarkets. Despite the fact that our crew had been terminated en masse and that only a few would technically be employed after the keys were surrendered, he began to give orders. “I want this done, 100%!”

No one had any inkling of his true identity.

Inexplicably. one of my coworkers began to hustle racks and displays out of the lobby. The rest of us were snickering, because we knew the poor sap would not be paid for his efforts. When I finally asked our intruder about his purpose in barking orders like a chihuahua, Tank became irritated.

“I am the MANAGER! He huffed. “THE GENERAL STORE MANAGER!”

That uncomfortable moment set the tone for three years that would follow.

Under the private owner, I had been a member of the grocery crew and a weekend manager. My tour-of-duty was productive, as I worked with veterans of many other chains like A & P, Valu King, Golden Dawn and Kroger. I learned much about the industry while stocking shelves and waiting on customers. The fact that I had long hair and a beard made no difference. I wore a tie during daytime hours, according to our dress code. That was enough. My place on the team seemed secure.

Under the new regime, all of this evaporated.

Without notice, I ended up on night crew. My second day as a corporate employee lasted 18 ½ hours while we frantically struggled to revamp the building in time for a Tuesday opening. I worked a delivery of regular stock while refrigeration trenches were being dug. Fumes and chemicals filled the air. The din drowned out music being played over our public address system. Tank shouted threats and curses where a simple word of encouragement would have sufficed. He bullied everyone. I reckoned it must have been a result of ‘short man syndrome.’ A transfer of anger from years of being teased about his lack of vertical stature.

Only one friend from the old crew remained with me, on third shift. We were baffled by our new leader and his assistant, another Cleveland import who had also worked his entire career with the company. Ferd was calloused lump of human flesh. A broken horse, flogged and starved for bouts of incompetence. He proved to be incapable of making out a proper grocery order. Our back room soon filled with overstock. Before long, unopened cases of product were going out of date. But when we voiced a sense of alarm, he shook off any idea of change. “I have to keep ordering because you guys can’t finish the pallets!”

Tank regularly interrupted our labor so that we could spend time conditioning the shelves. Appearances were everything to our masters by Lake Erie. With many items sitting by the back door, we straightened and dusted the half-empty shelves.

Every official note finished with the same written admonition. “MUST BE DONE, 100%!”

One morning, we were doing price changes with an older clerk named Groh, who looked like Chico Marx. He had the soft-speaking demeanor of a priest and was faithfully religious. When we complained about Tank using the management style of Benito Mussolini, he assured us that Jesus was nearby. A terse response echoed before I had time to mentally engage my brain. “Christ should be here right now, helping us!” I exclaimed. Groh simply bowed his head and continued to peel new shelf tags from his stack. In the morning, our boss arrived early, as was his habit. After sorting newspaper sections for the front end, he approached us in an aisle. Curses flew when he realized that our new friend had been putting tags in the wrong places.

I punched out at 7:00 a.m., per my schedule. When Groh tried to leave, Tank met him at the lobby doors. He repeatedly used the ‘F-word’ which surprised me as the store had just opened and gentle customers were filing inside, their heads still clouded with lingering grains of slumber left by the sandman. He demanded that the wilting clerk remain behind, off-the-clock. “You screwed this up and now you’re gonna effing fix it!” he screamed.

A few weeks later, Geauga County received a traditional blast of winter weather. Lake-effect snow buried our store and parking lot, to a depth that Tank had never seen in his Cleveland neighborhood. Hurrying to arrive, as ever, he lost control of his Ford Tempo sedan and flipped over a mound left by our plow company. With no remorse for his persistently sour mood, he approached me about being pulled out of the snow. “You have a four-wheel-drive truck, right?” Even our night crew captain warned that I would regret offering any assistance. But I grabbed my coat and cheerfully rescued the bully-mobile from its snowy grave.

Two weeks later, Tank wrote me up - the only formal disciplinary action I ever received in 33 years. We had endured a particularly dreadful night at the store. Due to employees calling off, only crew chief Rand and I were on the job. Before the start of our business day, I had to break away and clean the floors as our porter was one of those missing from action. When the boss arrived, we were far behind on our duties, due to the lack of manpower. He yelled, threatened, misdirected us and then, as we were leaving, waved the corrective forms in our faces. Both of us refused to sign. Outside the store, I sat in my truck for nearly half an hour before turning the key. The same scenario played out over and over in my gray matter. I wanted to walk inside and tell the little bully what I thought of his crude manner and indifference to logic. But I knew such an act would result in unemployment of a permanent kind. That had been his intention. Afterward, our union steward broke out laughing when he heard about the incident. “That is garbage,” he said with disbelief. “He is lucky anyone showed up at all.” The dubious paperwork ended up in a trash can.

Life had taken a downward turn when Tank entered our consciousness. I bought an answering machine because he frequently called my home to complain about issues, instead of addressing them when I was on duty. I declined to give up hours as our labor budget was reduced, and got hounded for the deed. When a layoff seemed imminent, one day of seniority saved me, with much scorn and harassment as the result. Then, after the passage of years, this experience ended much as it had begun. I returned to the store on a Thursday, after a quick nap at home, to pick up my paycheck. The head cashier asked if I had heard the news that made everyone bright-eyed and cheerful. “Tank was called to the offices on Richmond Road,” she whispered. “They are sending him to Mayfield. He starts there on Sunday!”

I could not stop smiling for weeks to come.

In years that followed, I was able to escape the graveyard shift and return to management duties. I bought a razor and got my facial appearance in line with corporate standards. Eventually, my path led to a salaried position, at a high-volume location, once again under private ownership. I found myself using Tank as a yardstick of sorts. A guide on how not to supervise others. A tarnished turd who held on too long to methods born in the 1950’s. Yet strangely, I also came to respect his unflagging resolve. His devotion to the business and attention to detail. His determination to instill discipline and wring profit from challenging stores. I rejected his methods, but the focus on success made sense.

Finally, he was forced into retirement after the company itself survived a takeover. He could not fit the paradigm of new-age ideas. I felt slightly sad for the flawed warrior. In his shadow I had found new life. A useful part of myself hardened and sharpened by the uneasy time we spent together.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Down Home, Part Two”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Sleep.

In the life of this writer, restful slumber has always been a precious commodity. Not only for the traditional reason that time constraints make it difficult to find such episodes, but because this static state never comes easily. From birth, I seem to have missed having the talent to shut my eyes and drift away.

Visiting the home of my parents, in West Virginia, has only intensified this lack of willful snoozing. With each arrival, dread of going horizontal returns. I nod off just enough to survive. But always return to a waking state too soon for comfort. The upshot is that I tend to sit in my father’s chair, reading old issues of MAD Magazine or discarded newspapers from decades ago. When the new day arrives in sun-drenched fullness, I stagger along at half-power. Wishing for rescue from the restless cycle of need and disappointment.

Still, as Dad would say, “Any experience is useful for a creative writer.”

Being awake and alone in the wee hours can provide both inspiration and opportunity. During my most recent week at our southern, family homestead, I happened to remember the ‘notes’ app on my iPhone. A friendly tool for jotting down ideas on-the-go. After finding a spot in the living room, amid stacks of open boxes and clutter left from years of neglect, I began to wander in spirit. Each framed photograph on the wall, each battered piece of furniture, each bowed step on the staircase seemed to speak with its own voice. Together, this chorus of memories filled my head. Voices, voices, voices...

A television antenna from the 1960’s? Still hanging in the office. A metal cabinet always used to hold canned foods, coffee, and spices? Still standing tall, in the kitchen. An electric roaster oven, from Parkersburg, kept with thoughts of finding a replacement power-cord so it could live again? Still sitting on its stand. Never repaired. A faux-painting bought with S & H Green Stamps, sometime around 1969? Stashed behind a bookcase after it fell off the wall.

The result of my reality-lapse was a prose poem inspired by these relics from yonder days:

Sleepless Night, Union Road

A sleepless night
I’m on my way
Writing rhymes
Like Grandma McCray
This house is fading
Into the past
The ship has sailed
The dice are cast
Dad in the ether
Mom in the home
It’s long after midnight
I feel alone
Rain on the roof
A chill in the air
This house once proud
Vanished into air
Birthdays near
But also the dark
A trailer full of rubbish
Sits in the yard
Surrender, sad
Traditions, blessed
No more R. D.
At his office desk
I watch the clock
It gives no comfort
I pray for sleep
But my rest was short
Now in Dad’s chair
I tap the screen
And write about
My backwards dream
They knew this house
For many years
A refuge with
The Mountaineers
A place for grandkids
Cats and dogs
And singing sparrows
With old creek frogs
Each Sunday, bright
They went to church
Paused there and prayed
In gospel words
But flesh goes weak
Like fading daylight
This house is empty
I do not delight
My heart is heavy
As the clock hands swing
No sleep can come
Thinking of these things
So in Dad’s chair
I sit and write
Until the dawn
Of morrow is nigh
Grandma whispers
Into my ear
And suddenly
These words appear
I love those souls
In heaven’s splendor
And by God’s grace
I will be there
When, like this house
I too go away
That reunion will be
A joyous day
But until then
I sit and ponder
Let words do tricks
Let my mind wander
With Grandma, Auntie
And Uncle Fritz
I search the night
For a word that fits
With Aunt Faenon
And Uncle Ronald
I soldier on
Till this page is filled
Then when at last
My head grows heavy
The pillows will
Come and cradle me
I will say goodnight
With a poet’s prayer
God bless my loved ones
Everywhere

The physical work of clearing our family abode has been taxing to the body. Joints creaking and aching with woe. Bones bending with fatigue. My tired flesh throbbing for relief. But the mental journey offered here has yielded a more welcome experience. A peek into the vastness of olden days, long filed away in antiquity. 
 

Dad was correct. Every experience can provide fuel for a wordsmith. From agony to ecstasy. From soaring success to the humility of defeat. Even the sad emptiness left after he passed away in April. Or the daunting task of cleaning out the house he loved so much, in the hills of Mountaineer country.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“1979”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

My life as a movie script.

It is a concept I have pondered ever since entering the ‘Learning Web’ apprenticeship program, sponsored by Cornell University, in 1978. I landed that year at Channel 13, a local public access television outlet. After learning the various duties involved with local broadcasting, I inquired about hosting a program of cutting-edge, Rock music. The result was a live show which began at 11:30 p.m. on Friday night.

With raucous sounds of Patti Smith, Ramones, Sex Pistols, Clash and Devo redefining the genre, I decided to call our new series ‘Punk-Out!’ It debuted on January 5^th, 1979, at the Cerrache Cablevision studio on West State Street, in Ithaca, New York.

Over the decades that followed, much of Punk culture has been reviewed, recycled and revived in books, videos and documentary films. Long-lost clubs like CBGB’s have been elevated to the holy status of a church sanctuary. Figures like Sid Vicious have inherited a place in counterculture iconography, after death.

Yet for myself, there has been a sense of work left unfinished. The notion that our story could be told - indeed, should be told - in a motion picture of some kind. Perhaps a historical dramatization, one spiced with artistic embellishment and seeded with requisite points of reference from that period.

I sometimes imagine approaching a film studio or a director with this idea in hand. It is a dream no less surreal than the actual program we created so many years ago:

CAYUGA FILMS: “Hello, this is the office of Cayuga Films, Limited. A division of Mixtar One Entertainment. May I help you?”

ME: “This is Rod Ice, calling from Cleveland, Ohio. I sent you a package of material about my Punk Rock television show...”

CAYUGA FILMS: (Laughing) “Oh, hello Mr. Ice! Yes, we saw your DVD. Quite primitive, it was evident that you shot everything with a single camera.”

ME: “That’s right. We had one color camera at Channel 13. And, I believe, one old black-and-white camera for backup. Did you have a chance to read the information packet I included?”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Mr. Solomeski looked through everything. He is in charge of acquisitions. I was instructed to get more in-depth analysis when you called.”

ME: “I didn’t include enough details?”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Mr. Solomeski wanted to know if this was intended to be a comedy film like ‘Wayne’s World?’

ME: “No, no, not a comedy. Everything I describe, everything on the video is real.”

CAYUGA FILMS: (Pausing) “Okay… the show was hosted by a teenage kid with an armload of vinyl albums and a Japanese, Teisco guitar?”

ME: “I hosted the show. I was 17 at the premiere.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “You did?”

ME: “Yes. After the first week, other people from the station and the community joined our team.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “So, this would be a spoof of television broadcasting? Like a New Wave Seinfeld?”

ME: “No, more of a documentary. Or a historical recreation.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Mr. Solomeski was confused. This is an act you created?”

ME: “No, I was a senior in high school. Class of 1979.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “You would play a high-school kid in this movie?”

ME: “No, I was a high-school kid. The youngest member of the crew at Channel 13. Luckily, a fellow we nicknamed ‘The Guru’ was in charge of the station. He had a lot of patience. And, a lot of knowledge to impart about television production.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “This is a real story? Not a comedy??”

ME: “Yes.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “You actually drove Mr. Guru’s Volkswagen into the studio for a live broadcast?”

ME: “Yes!”

CAYUGA FILMS: “You had bands with names like Anti-Life, Rugcheeze, the Embarrassing Pinworms and S & M with Invisible Dick?”

ME: “S & M was Rod Swindle and Manic McManus. Myself and co-host David Bly. Dick was in a working group at the time and remained invisible so as not to piss off his bandmates.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Your writing is hilarious, we must admit.”

ME: “It isn’t writing. That was what happened on the air in 1979 and 1980.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Mr. Solomeski said he needed a few mixed drinks to get through your video. The look was very authentic, though...”

ME: “Those were VHS outtakes from actual broadcasts. Not an affectation made to look genuine.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Okay, so your idea is to make a movie about a TV show.”

ME: “Yes.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “A TV show hosted by a teenage kid in a leather jacket, mirror sunglasses and chains.”

ME: “Yes.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “That sounds perfect for a comedy film to us, perhaps Jack Black could play the lead?”

ME: “No!”

CAYUGA FILMS: “What do you suppose the target audience might be for a film with that kind of lead character? Fetishism? Bondage enthusiasts? Unemployed musicians?”

ME: “Ma’am, the audience would be middle-aged people like me who remember that era. Or youthful fans seeking to uncover what we experienced.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “I haven’t been called ‘ma’am’ before. That is odd to hear on the telephone.”

ME: “Sorry, I am from Ohio. I spent 33 years in retail management after coming home.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “You did what??”

ME: “I managed grocery stores. It paid the bills while working on my career as a professional writer.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “So, you did not stay in television?”

ME: “No.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you continue studying at Cornell?”

ME: “I wanted to be a Rock & Roll star. Like everyone in my generation.”

CAYUGA FILMS: (Snickering) “Wouldn’t that have conflicted with the Punk ethos?”

ME: “I reckoned it would be ‘cash from chaos’ like the Swindle movie. A way to avoid regular employment.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “I see. But that didn’t work out…?”

ME: “No, I ended up living under a bridge and staying with friends.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “And going home to Ohio?”

ME: “Yes.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Mr. Solomeski said you claimed to be connected to Tommy Hilfiger, the fashion designer?”

ME: “That came after the TV show. I was in a group called Absolute Zero. Tommy’s brother, Andy, played bass. We recorded two 45s and were working on a third. The project never went anywhere.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Okay, and then you went into the newspaper business?”

ME: “I was with two different publications in the Cleveland area. My writing career started in earnest, in 1982.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “What about now?”

ME: “I had to retire at 55 due to health reasons.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “So now, you want to make a comedy film...”

ME: “Not a comedy! I want to tell my life story. I believe it reads like a movie script, word-for-word.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “Do you know how many ideas are submitted every year to our company?”

ME: “I do not. But this one has to be unique.”

CAYUGA FILMS: “I think Mr. Solomeski would agree on that...”

ME: “Then, we can make a deal?”

CAYUGA FILMS: (Laughing) “You’ll get a follow-up call if there is any interest. We have a stable of low-budget directors who work for us, who knows what might transpire...”

ME: “You don’t want to miss an opportunity to be ahead of the curve.”

CAYUGA FILMS: (Snorting) “Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Have a nice day, Mr. Ice!”

My idea for the film would be titled ‘1979.’ This concept has lingered for many years. Perhaps, in time, it will become more than a writing project for my personal column series, here on the Internet.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Retrophonic 5”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Synchronicity.

In past years, I have often received a new recording by Davie Allan and the Arrows just as my personal life was enduring some sort of twist or turn that caused frayed nerves. On each occasion, finding a new disc in my postal mail offered a kind of soothing musical therapy. I came to depend on the California guitarist for healing vibes of fuzz.

Thoughts of Davie’s plectrum power returned, recently, when I discovered a copy of ‘Retrophonic 5’ in my post office box, at the mail depot in Chardon. I was just about to embark on a southern tour to continue the cleanup of my parents’ home, while finalizing my mother’s application for Medicaid. A battle joined in February, when she first entered a local nursing home.

I needed good vibes. ‘King Fuzz’ provided them, with gusto.

In yonder days, I composed a series of ‘First Impressions’ reviews whenever a new DA release appeared. It was a tradition born during the time I spent as a member of his fan forum on Yahoo. I made a mental note to write a similar piece for this newest arrow-dynamic recording, upon returning home. Meanwhile, I copied the CD onto my iPhone, for listening portability.

The week in West Virginia went quickly. I appeared in court with my sister, where we were granted guardianship/conservatorship for my mother. After several visits in the area to various institutions, her affairs were in order. And, I was able to settle the estate of my late father. Then, the journey home began. After a week of chili dogs, microwave dinners and pepperoni rolls, I was ready for home cooking and a free-form, wordsmithing session in my office.

Positive vibrations were in the air:

FIRST IMPRESSIONS – Retrophonic 5

by Davie Allan and the Arrows

1. Meltdown In Sector 5 – A hard ride on a steel-wound slide. Back in the saddle again, my friend. I have strings to bend. The King of Fuzz is here, draw thee near. Sing your praise, these are happy days!

2. Barhop – Glasses off the table, ride the rocker if you’re able. Suds and sounds and such, I dig the fuzz too much. Crank it to eleven, we’re on our way to heaven.

3. Swing It – Jazzy, jump and jive. The King of Fuzz is ever alive! Long may he reign, there’s a new album bearing his name. Good to hear, good to feel. A shining disc with sound appeal.

4. Guitar Central – On parade, a statement is made. Rattle the speaker cone, with the arrow-leader you are never alone. Shooting straight at the target. A bullseye you will never forget.

5. Feather River – Swim for your life, danger is there... white man beware! The new day comes in the fullness of sun. Kick the stream, live the dream. Everything is not what it seems.

6. Get Your Licks On Route 66 – A familiar friend, up around the bend. Mid-range sound, tires to the ground. Strutting, rolling, proud and pretty. Hope you like this fuzzed-out ditty.

7. Blue Dawn – Good vibes from my tribe. A siren song from the other side. Ready to ride and ready to sing. Let those steel strings ring! Going to vanish into the sun. Having fun.

8. She’s Been Gone So Long – Hard to remember her being here, but the memory is near. I still love her so, just so you know. When the sunset kisses goodnight, my dreams take flight. Gonna feel alright.

9. Audiosyncrasy – Mike Hammer gold, brassy and bold. The Fuzz King rides at night. Out of limits, outta sight. Spinning tires, digging dirt. A plectrum strike, an audio alert.

10. Topsy – Up early with the dawn, must be traveling on. Colors of morning in the clouds, no hindrance of doubt. Step with the sheikhs and feel elite. Blow with the breeze. This ride is neat.

11. Sentimental Journey – Bopping backwards, into yesterday we play. Good to be here, no cares, no fears. The glow of King Fuzz appears. My heart full of hope. A Jazzmaster neck and six slender ropes.

12. The Missing Link – A Wray of sunshine in 4/4 time. I’m stoked on the mainline. Ready to soar, have mined this groove before. So good to slip and slide, glad for the ride. The rumble continues. A six-string brawl, out in the hall. Come hear us, ya’ll!

13. The Stranger – Who is he, looking familiar to me… pale rider at horizon’s edge, Fender guitar sitting on the ledge. A mournful tale, cautionary like a mine canary. Heed the call, do not fall.

14. Night Crawler – Strut and strike, gonna ride my bike. A chrome steed with bells and beads. Leather chaps and boot-heel kicks, got to get my fix. One-horse town going down. Whammy-bar both near and far. Now the tale is told. The wind is growing cold.

It had been a long time since I channeled such stream-of-consciousness energy through my keyboard. After years of learning to embrace linguistic discipline, these moments of abandon were liberating. Like rediscovering childhood innocence. An experience gratefully received after long inhabiting a world of artifice and stale traditions.

The tonal palette of Davie Allan, as ever, made it possible!

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Down Home, Part One”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Reverse parenting.

I have written much in this space about my recent travels to Barbour County, West Virginia. With father having passed away in April and mother entering the Mansfield Place nursing home, our roles as protector and protected switched forever. After many years with Dad still at the helm, his steady hand could no longer steer our family through the bluster of daily life.

My sister, who suffers from Multiple Sclerosis, piloted the effort to put things right. It was her patient mood that helped maintain calm when she first convinced our progenitors to leave their home in February. A task that my brother and I certainly could not have accomplished,

Months later, the work of clearing their house and settling their affairs remained challenging. Our visits were like a series of downs in a football game. Each span of yards was gained only with great effort. Being far from my own home, the usual comforts of life, like hot water, the Internet, and adult beverages, were out of reach. So a different kind of therapy helped me survive the inevitable nights without slumber that followed.

I began to write.

Since there was no computer available in the household, or typewriter, I sat in Dad’s easy chair with my iPhone. In the wee hours, thoughts of the vanishing homestead and our humbled family were channeled through that plastic cube into pages of useful text:

Story 9-08-18

This is how the story ended
Barbour County, WV
Court on the 7th
Mom lost and wandering through an invisible fog
Dad in the loam of Parkersburg
Me praying
For release
For the dawn, the daybreak
Surrender to the waking day
Sleep will not visit
In the coolness of night
I peer at my cell phone
Awake, alone
Pondering the task ahead
We are clearing
The place on Union Road
Our never was and forever was
Our southern outpost
The home of our parents
Last stop on the Mountaineer railroad
Sister and me
Her MS and my arthritic knees
Carrying bags of garbage
This is how the story ended
Mom with her plush pretend pet
She no longer calls it by name
Or us
We are vaguely familiar to her
Friendly but no longer family
Children but not her own
I pray for the orphans because
Today, I am in their tribe
Blank and blotted out
Like a ruler
With no numbers
Mom is here but why?
We are here, but why?
I have no tears
No release
We have come to find the one
Who carried us in her womb
Yet she laughs
“You call me mama?”
We still have the memory of father
Our sire and savior
Our captain
Ever certain, our champion
But mother
She is no more
A slate wiped clean
Smiling, gray hair matted
Feet turning blue
Can’t they see she needs socks?
In her wheelchair
We, pretend this is normal
Giving praise for her persistence
She is the last one eating dinner
Has done well to finish her meal
So we celebrate
Sister says “You will be 88 next week!”
Mom reacts
With disbelief at such silliness
“88? I think not!”
No no no
There is conviction in her protest
No, this is the 1940’s
Mom is in grade school
With Frankie Davis
This is how the story ended
Tired, we go home to Union
Still working
Trash trailer in the yard
Clearing the house of 32 years
Dust and bugs and life debris
Porch light half full
Of insects dead and dry
In the office
My desk from high school
Dad’s glasses from 1960
Old radios
A motorcycle tire innertube
Christmas cards
A TV antenna hung by the window
Cord dangling in the air
Magazines long overdue for trash
This is how the story ended
Pepperoni rolls on the table
Sore, sick and moody
Sitting in Dad’s chair
At 3:00 in the morning
Notes app on my phone
Giving thanks
For the words that arrive

After composing my prose poem, I posted it on Facebook, where relatives could read and comment. Their reactions came quickly. Finally, I felt content enough to sleep for a couple of hours. My dreams were restless. Images of turmoil and past memories re-imagined by fatigue. With each turn of the blankets, I hoped for daylight.

In the morning, I sat with coffee and pondered my work.

Many years of study and writing had transpired in this home just off of Union Road. Three decades and more for my parents. Because they had moved constantly throughout their lives, it offered a sense of stability never available before. Much like ‘The Farm’ in Columbus did, for my grandparents.

Now, that story was ending. I felt sad to let it slip away.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024